


Little Kisses

by RemixtheBox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6386869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemixtheBox/pseuds/RemixtheBox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kisses began one uneventful morning at 221B Baker Street. John doesn't know what to do about his flatmate's sudden change in behavior, and Sherlock just wants John to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies! This is a fic I've been working on for a while now, and I'm excited to see what you guys think of it. Not beta'd or brit-picked, so all of those shameful little mistakes are unfortunately my doing.
> 
> ~Remix~

The day was just beginning with the sun just barely grazing over the horizon. London was already buzzing, but then again, when was it ever not sprinkled with life? My sheets were tangled around my legs in a sweaty, uncomfortable mess. The duvet was on the floor- completely thrown off. Must have had a nightmare last night. Figures. The last case was particularly grueling and Sherlock had gotten himself hurt. 

I sat up and groaned, stretching my limbs until I heard a satisfying popping sound. My shoulder was a bit sore from the exercise I put it through yesterday. I added “carrying Sherlock out of a broken lift shaft” to my list of things that tended to aggravate it. Rubbing the clothed shoulder, I stood up to begin my daily routine. 

The flat was quiet when I made it down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was no doubt still asleep and Sherlock was probably still engaged in the post case crash he tended to get. The git had only gotten an hour or two of sleep in the past four days. I wouldn’t wake him even if I were dying if it meant he got some much-needed sleep.

Cool tile met my feet as I stepped into the bathroom. The shock was enough to wake me up a bit. Slowly, I began to strip out of my clothes, folding them with neat precision even if I knew they were dirty and didn’t require such treatment. I turned the spray on and stepped in immediately, using the cold water to get me fully awake. The water heated and I was grateful for the warmth against my chilled skin. 

I indulged in a slightly longer shower today, as my muscles were certainly not complaining at the gentle treatment of the shower-head’s spray. Eventually, I stepped out and toweled off. I brushed my teeth for the recommended time and threw my clothes on. My dirty clothes got thrown into the hamper we kept in the corner of the bathroom. Sherlock and I didn’t even bother to separate our clothes in our respective rooms anymore; we both knew I did all the laundry and this way it was easier for transport. Besides, most of his required dry-cleaning being the posh git he was.

The kitchen was a dreadful mess, I noted. I had neglected to keep up on my tidying the last few days, so half-empty take-away boxes and mugs of tea littered every surface. Sherlock’s lab area on the table was set up with some experiment having to do with fungal growth on corpses under certain conditions. Thank god he hadn’t left out the toes he was using as a medium for this experiment. What a horrid smell that would be.

I was waiting for the kettle to boil when I heard telltale noises of Sherlock’s ascent into the waking world. There was some shuffling, a moan to test his vocal chords (god knows what a tragedy it would be if those didn’t work), followed by a groan of pain. There was then a strangled noise that was probably my name.

Grabbing some paracetamol and a glass of water, I made my way into his room. He was curled into ball, no doubt aggravating the wound on his side. I tsked and forced him to lay flat after I had set his medicine down. He glared at me, still absorbed too much in exhaustion to really fight against my man-handling. I felt a surge of pride for being the only one see him like this: all mussed hair and sleepy eyes. If I was being honest myself, I would describe it like it was: absolutely adorable. However, I rarely let myself be honest. What was the point of having such romantic ideas about someone you could never have in such a way? I was content to have this intimacy, and I wasn’t completely sure I could handle any more. I would completely melt and dissolve into a lovesick John Watson mush for sure.

I gave him the medicine to take before he fell back to sleep again. My heart warmed when he took it with only minor complaint. I was leaning down to take the glass from him when I felt it. If I wasn’t so attuned to everything Sherlock did, I would have missed it. There was a brief pressure against my temple and and sleepy exhale against my hairline. Sherlock Holmes actually kissed me.

By the time the shock wore off, Sherlock had already passed out cold. I knew that the simple kiss shouldn’t get my hopes up. Sherlock was tired and he always showed his gratitude in weird ways. He probably just grabbed the wrong folder in his mind palace or however he dealt with decision making. It didn’t really matter how he came to the decision to do it, all that mattered was that it wasn’t intentional and my idiotic heart needed to realize this and calm the fuck down already.

If I stayed and watched him sleep for longer than was strictly necessary, well then, that was my little secret.

 

~

 

Two weeks since Sherlock’s thank you kiss, there was still no case that caught his eye. I was getting desperate for something to come up. I loved this man more than I was willing to admit to myself, but if I was called home from work one more time because he needed to be entertained not even Mycroft Holmes will know what happened to him. 

“John!” I heard Sherlock calling as I came in with the groceries. I rolled my eyes and prayed to whatever god who would listen that I was given the strength to let Sherlock Holmes live another day. The fact that I knew exactly how I would pull it off was not helpful to my cause. 

When I finally got up to the flat, Sherlock was upon me. “Where did you go? Did you go see Lestrade? Did he have a case? Please tell me you have a case, John.”

I sighed, “Tesco, no, I wouldn’t know, don’t make me lie to you.”

He scoffed, “Honestly John, what is the point of you if you and your silly blog can’t get an interesting case?”

“Right. Can you help me put away the groceries?” He had said worse to me in this state, so I wasn’t phased by his vitriol. 

He swirled away in a huff, clearly displeased by my lack of reaction. I smiled triumphantly and made my way to the kitchen, “Tea?”

A small grunt followed, so I assumed he wanted some. The groceries were put away using the efficient system I had created. When living with Sherlock, you never knew how much time you had to get something done. Popping the kettle on, I leaned against the counter to wait for it to whistle. I knew better than to try and engage Sherlock in a conversation when he was like this. That was a mistake you only made once or twice.

Once his tea was finished, I calmly set it on the coffee table. I went to turn away when I was suddenly forced onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs and dressing gown.

“Christ, Sherlock, what are you-” I was cut off because my face was suddenly buried in a head of curls. Somehow, my back ended up meeting the back of the sofa. Sherlock’s arm acted as a cage so I couldn’t get up, and he was pressed into me so I couldn’t escape. He was curling into me, as if trying to find a way to wriggle under my skin. 

I tried to move, but Sherlock actually growled at me. Accepting my defeat, I sunk into the sofa and relaxed in his hold. I didn’t know what Sherlock was doing, but if it kept him entertained and quiet, I frankly did not give a damn. 

He moved his head as I began to doze off. Those soft, cupid bow lips grazed my jaw. I tried not to tense, but some reactions are involuntary. He wasn’t hurt and tired this time, quite the opposite really. Why would he… oh. He was bored and without a case so he was no doubt cataloging my reactions as some sort of twisted experiment. 

Ignoring the pain in my chest, I forced myself to relax again. It wasn’t as hard as it should have been, but his scent was comforting and I was going to bask in this moment while it lasted. Not many people could say they had a cuddle session on the couch with a consulting detective. Hopefully, no one but me was able to claim this fact as true. 

The blissful moment was ruined by a buzz on his mobile, causing him to jump up in a frenzy of long limbed detective. In his haste I was tugged and rolled off of the couch, landing on the floor unceremoniously. “A case John! Triple homicide, a note, and possible serial killer. Christmas is here once again!” He flounced to his room and left me still dazed on the ground.

I sighed and shook my head fondly. What else did I expect from my detective? 

 

~

 

Sherlock was glowing as he walked onto the crime scene. I didn’t even think the fact that Anderson was on forensics could upset him too much.

Lestrade met us with a wide smile on his face, “Glad you boys could make it. You’re going to like this one, Sherlock.”

“I better. I have more important things to do with my time,” Sherlock lied. Lestrade and I exchanged knowing glances behind his back.

“Of course you do, mate, “ Lestrade led us into the house. I didn’t even bother with the scrubs anymore, Sherlock claiming he can differentiate what belonged to me and what belonged to the crime. If I ever wanted to become a serial killer, this would save me from his deductions. Not that I ever would, just knowledge I kept in the back of my head in case someone got a bit too irritating.

The house smelled like an unpleasant amount of roses. I scrunched up my nose and coughed. There was unfinished dinner on the table, and I began to try and make my own deductions. Being with Sherlock as long as I had improved my observation skills considerably, and while I still didn’t hold a candle to Sherlock’s ability, it was easier for me to follow his reasoning because I had seen what he had as well. I clearly saw the haste to leave the table, the spilled wine on the ground. There were three place settings in total and the food was barely touched. Sherlock began to examine the table with disinterest. 

“Take me to the bodies,” he demanded suddenly. Lestrade jumped and swore, but led us back to the bedroom. 

The room still had the stale scent of sex in the air. The three parties were naked, obviously, and two were shot in the heart with a red rose placed in the hole. The third was holding a white rose in one hand with a pistol in the other. There were no obvious wounds or cause of death on the third. In a marker across the third’s heart, “Liar” was written in neat, curvy hand-writing.

Sherlock dove straight into his deductions, “The one’s with the shots in the heart were obviously the couple. Newlyweds, just moved in recently, wanted to add spice to their sex life because the novelty of being together was beginning to fade. The third male is obviously a prostitute, no doubt hired for the purpose of joining the couple in the bedroom.” He kneeled and looked at the gun, “The shots were from this weapon, and he did pull the trigger, but who killed him? The food at the table was poisoned. They were already dying when they fell into bed together. It was the prostitute who poisoned them, deciding to take the couple out of their bliss because he had such a traumatic childhood when it came to gay relations. The boy wrote the words on himself based on the smudges on his hand, probably confessing that he lied to the couple and was feeling the guilt settle in as he faded away. This isn’t a triple homicide, but a double murder suicide and a waste of my time. While the rose scheme is similar to the serial killer you’ve been investigating, this isn’t his work.”

Sherlock went to leave, and I would usually take his word as gospel and follow him out spouting words about how brilliant he was, but something felt wrong. I couldn’t place it, but it didn’t make sense for the boy to write on himself without a good reason, or for him to be holding a white rose. Why was he holding that rose?

My mind went back to the lessons my mom taught me in the garden while I helped her plant roses. The colors had different meaning. Red was love and passion, obviously, but white was… innocence. Why would a murderous prostitute who had bad experiences with gay sex be holding a rose that signified innocence?

“If someone made him do it.” A voice that sounded exactly like Sherlock echoed in my head. 

“That’s weird…” I said aloud.

Lestrade looked up from his phone, “I thought you and Sherlock left.”

“The boy… neither of the couple is wearing a condom, but the prostitute is.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “John, surely even you know that prostitutes can carry-”

“The boy who has a fear of gay sex let them fuck him bareback? I don’t think so. Both members of the couple have signs of penetration, and the condom on the prostitute has seen some action. However, there is still semen coming out of the prostitute. There was another person.”

Lestrade just stared in bewilderment, “Christ…”

“John, what on Earth is taking you so long?” Sherlock strode back in, having adopted a fully formed pout, “What could Lestrade be possibly saying that is so scintillating that you can’t tell me how brilliant I am for solving the case?”

“Because you didn’t solve the case. Tell him, John,” Lestrade urged. Some of the forensics team had come in to see why Sherlock had walked back in, including Anderson. Donovon entered as well, no doubt curious as to what was going on.

“While the young boy may have shot the couple and poisoned the food, he didn’t do it without help. While he was dying, there was a fourth person who had come in and had sex with him, to which he participated in willingly, I might add. The man made him write liar on his chest and gave him the white rose to hold. I don’t know why and I have no clue who did it, but there is definitely some outside influence in this one. I think The Yard was correct when they claimed it was a triple homicide”

The Yard members stared in awe at me. No one had ever corrected Sherlock on one of his deductions, and to be honest, I wasn’t keen on being the first to do so. Sherlock looked over the bodies again, this time even with more care. His eyes went wide and he snapped his gaze back to me, “You’re right John. I was wrong.”

What I was prepared for was a rude comment, or even for him to completely explain the deduction to get the attention back where he felt it belonged: on him. What I wasn’t expecting was for him to excitedly grab my face and place a sloppy kiss on my forehead.

“Brilliant John!” He exclaimed, “He’s not even a detective and he got further than you lot. Give me all the information you have on that boy. Find his clothes, anything that has to do with him. The murderer must have known a DNA test would give us his identity. He was either buying time or playing a game. Move faster!”

The Yard members were even in more shock than when I had the breakthrough in the case. Not only did Sherlock admit he was wrong, but he had kissed me right in front of their faces. Lestrade, bless this man’s soul, was the least dumbfounded. “You heard the man, move it! We have a murderer on the run.”

Sherlock was already twirling out of the room dramatically, no doubt to get an identification on the young man. Lestrade walked over to me. 

“So, you two finally together?”

“What?” I asked, still in a daze from the kiss, “Oh, no. We’re not- we’re still not like that.”

Lestrade was baffled, “But he just-”

“I think it’s his new way of showing gratitude,” I cut him off, “It doesn’t mean anything, not really.”

Greg laughed and shook his head in disbelief, “If you say so mate.”

Later that night when Sherlock and I were hunting down a 56 year-old sugar daddy, I found myself distracted by the way the moonlight caught on Sherlock’s features. It meant nothing, I assured myself. No one as beautiful as him would love a broken soldier like me.

 

~

 

It was a stake-out tonight. I had just just finished posting “Rosey-Cheeked Love Affair” on the blog when Sherlock was dragging me out for the next case. He was still buzzing from the last one, the Sugar Daddy being more clever than he thought. Apparently, the prostitute was Rupert Cordell and he was at the center of quite a few scandals. He was surprisingly a virgin up until the moment of his death simply because he killed his clients at the word of his ‘daddy” Langston Jackman. The newlywed couple were two people the boy had taken an individual interest in and craved an affair with the two men. He was allowed, but Langston told him to put a special “aphrodisiac” in their food for the most pleasurable experience. It was poison, Langston came into the house, forced Rupert to kill the couple, and then proceeded to take the “innocence” of Rupert. Rupert turned out to be Greg’s rose serial killer, and Langston had added the roses to throw Greg off his trail for a bit. Sherlock and I found him in a high-end hotel offering us wine and dinner. For as long as it took to track him down, he was sadly mistaken in our nature. The case was wrapped up quickly after that.

Now, all I had gotten out of Sherlock was “drug cartel”and “hostage” in reference to what exactly we were doing at a shipyard and three in the morning. Asking anymore questions was pointless and only earned me an eye roll and tense silence.

Sherlock was pressed close to my side and I tried my hardest not to inhale too deeply. It was truly pathetic how easily his scent made my head spin and heart hurt. It would be easy to ignore my attraction to him if he believed in giving people personal space, but that was never a priority with him, especially when it came to me. Just when I think I’ve finally moved on and buried the feelings I had been harboring ever since that day at the pool, he just strides up into my bubble and ruins everything. It’s like he fucking knows.

Christ. He probably does and uses my useless puppy-love as a way to manipulate me to his will. Even knowing this, I still do as he says. Utter prick.

He leaned further into me, looking above the crate alcove we had ourselves secluded in. When he relaxed into his half kneel again, I expected him to move away. But he didn’t, remaining a constant pressure on my side. I began to recite the different bones in the body to maintain my carefully crafted self-control I had built against Sherlock and all of his totally unfair body contact. Even through both of our coats I could feel his inviting body heat. 

I was almost at my limit when I finally said something, “Sherlock, could you please budge-”

His hand wrapped around me and slapped over my mouth before I could even finish my request. I was about to struggle, but he must have saw this coming and wrapped his other arm around my waist to secure my position. It was strangely intimate and I acquiesced to his hold. 

I fought a shiver as his lips brushed my ear as he began to speak into it, “They’re here. I’ll work on a distraction to apprehend them. The victim will be tied with rope and have minor injuries. Go tend to them and get them to safety. Do not leave their side, they are involved in a series of murders in Wales.” With a kiss to my ear, he was off in a flurry of movement. 

I had no time to dwell on his actions or the beating of my heart. I sprang into action and and ran in the direction Sherlock had gone.

 

~

 

Mycroft was visiting. I noted the black car sitting outside the flat and groaned. It has been three weeks since the last kiss from Sherlock and I’ve been in emotional hell ever since. The older Holmes would probably smell the turmoil on me and use it as a jab. Last time we met I may have been even more of a sassy arsehole than I usually was with him and pointed out his desire for total control of every situation and then suggested that he would be a terrible partner to have in the bedroom. While it had gotten a snort out of Sherlock, if I wasn’t already Mycroft Holmes’ sworn enemy, I was now. 

I trudged up the stairs with a feeling of doom in my stomach. What else could you do when you were about to go toe to toe with the intimidating umbrella man?

I tried to bury my Rihanna pop culture reference as to not accidentally blurt it out in front of the man.The door to the flat was open and I strolled as confidently as I could into the kitchen. 

“John, the queen is here,” Sherlock grumbled from his chair.

“Would the queen like some tea?” I didn’t bother to turn and look. I was already putting on the kettle and pulling out three mugs.

“Tea would be lovely, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft’s nasal grated on me. Sometimes I just wanted to punch him in his posh nose to see what would happen. I wouldn’t lie, I had planned how to murder that man several times. After going on cases for so long, I had a pretty good idea of how to do it without getting caught. 

Sherlock would help me hide the body.

“John, if you would please stop day-dreaming about the clerk at Tesco, my brother has a proposal.”

If only he knew, “What is it this time?” I continued to put away the groceries and paid the two men in the living room little mind. I could tell this was upsetting both of them. The Holmes brothers were known for their dramatics and craving to be the center of attention. 

“The proposal is for you, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft clarified. I had to bite my tongue to force myself not to make a joke about marriage and “at least take me on a date first.”

“Oh?” I continued my air of disinterest even though I was dying to know what Mycroft Holmes would want from me as a favor. What did he even deem worthy enough to risk owing a favor for?

I heard the frustrated release of breath and a sick satisfaction spread through me. Sherlock was absolutely right: there was nothing better than irritating Mycroft.

Having had my fun for this meeting, I made the tea and walked into the living room. Mycroft was standing and I handed him his tea carefully. He did look nice in that suit and I’m pretty sure I would be found in an alley by the Yard if I did anything to ruin it. Sherlock took his tea and gripped the cup. Whatever Mycroft was here for, he wasn’t happy about it. 

After getting my tea from the kitchen, I retired to my chair and dramatically focused my attention on the older Holmes. His eyes squinted in a brief glare, then a tight smile pulled at his lips.

“I need you retrieve a file for me,” Mycroft began, “Before you ask your inane question, yes, it has to be you. You are familiar with Bill Murray, I presume.”

Flashbacks of Afghanistan plagued my thought briefly. Sitting with Bill as he smoked a cigarette, eating lunch in the hall, doing a karaoke duet of “Summer Lovin’” at a bar, Bill crying over me as he desperately tried to stop the bleeding of my shoulder… “Yes. Very familiar.”

In the corner of my eye, Sherlock’s eyes darted to me. I kept mine firmly on Mycroft. What did Bill have to do with anything? 

“Well, one of his superiors is trying to frame him with confiscation of some important documents. He was sent on leave a few weeks ago and the files were planted somewhere in his flat. We don’t want to draw attention to our involvement, so we need someone close to him to be let in without a warrant. He doesn’t have any real familial connections or friends that can be trusted, so you are the sole candidate.”

I was about to suggest that he just get one of his men to seduce him and go back to his flat for a one night stand, but I remembered that Bill wasn’t that kind of bloke. He never really slept with anyone, and he definitely wouldn’t be looking for that after coming home from Afghanistan, “And I assume that I am not to look at the files?”

“I thought that was implied, Doctor, but it appears that I have over-estimated your intelligence once again.”

The tension in the room rose to staggering heights. If it was ever like this with Sherlock, I always cracked under the pressure. However, I was just stubborn enough that Mycroft Holmes would never see me break under his will. Fuck this guy.

I didn’t even notice Sherlock clearing his throat, “Don’t you have your own Goldfish to play with Mycroft?”

Mycroft turned to him, “Pardon?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. I know what’s going on, even if John does not.”

I turned to him and raised a quizzical brow, “What are you- never mind. I don’t want to know. I’ll call up Bill tonight and arrange a meeting with him. You should have the file sometime before the end of the week.”

Sherlock and Mycroft were still having one of their “face” conversations and I sighed. How did this become my life, looking after two immature geniuses? I collected their tea mugs, Mycroft's barely touched, the areshole, and brought them to the kitchen.

“I think it is time you leave. John and I have things to do.”

We really didn’t, but I wasn’t going to correct him if it got Mycroft out of the flat. Sherlock jumped up and I thought he was going to go to his violin and start doing that awful screeching thing he does, but instead he came to where I was washing up at the sink to wrap his arms around my waist. I tensed immediately. What the hell did Sherlock think he was accomplishing? 

“Really, brother? Must you be so childish?” Mycroft questioned, but I detected a small ray of fondness in his voice. As much as Mycroft made my skin crawl, he really wasn’t all that bad. I just needed to be reminded from time to time.

“You’re still here?” Sherlock asked, burying his nose in my hair, making a show of inhaling deeper than was socially acceptable. I just sighed and continued to wash the mugs. I couldn’t play the “let’s analyze if Sherlock is fucking with my emotions on purpose” game today.

I did jump a little as I felt him begin to place small kisses all over my hair. My heart sky-rocked to a rate that really couldn’t be good for me. What the hell did Sherlock think he was doing? Why would he choose now, of all times to, to start showing affection like a possessive boyfriend? Realization dawned on me. He must be scared that Mycroft was trying to lure me away from him. I wouldn’t put it past Mycroft, he has tried to do it in the past. This was his way of showing Mycroft that I wasn’t allowed to leave even if he tried to take me away under the facade of “missions” and “danger.”

Mycroft shifted awkwardly, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Do be careful brother, I wouldn’t want to take care of an… incident.” He was gone before I could even begin to decipher what that meant.

Sherlock let go, but not before kissing my head one more time and whispering something that sounded vaguely like “my goldfish.” 

 

~

 

Sherlock’s on again off again affection was taking it’s toll. He became more generous with his kisses. When I handed him tea it was a kiss on the cheek. When I brought in groceries it was one on my hair. If I especially clever or helpful, no matter where we were, he would place one on my forehead. Sometimes when he was lying on the sofa, he would make grabby hands at me and I was forced to reside with him and cuddle. However, he continued to act as aloof as always, pushing away any attempts I made at progressing the relationship further. One time I tried to return a kiss and he had left the flat. Just up and left. It was frustrating and hurtful and I wasn’t sure I could take it anymore.

Next time, I told myself. Next time I’ll tell him stop. Next time I’ll push him away. My resolve would build and and my determination would reach usually unshakable levels, but as soon as I felt those lips on me I was back to a pliant mush of sentiment and pathetic self-indulgence. I needed to take a step back. I needed to stop thinking about Sherlock. 

So I was going on a date.

Her name was Anna and she was lovely. We actually had a lot in common for once, and I had high hopes for finally being able to make a real connection. Maybe I’ll finally have someone who appreciates me and doesn’t run away when I try to kiss their forehead. Not that I ever truly had the sole person who did that, but one could dream such was the case. 

“Sherlock?” I called out as I came into the flat. Sherlock was working on another experiment and I honestly didn’t listen when he explained it to me. I entered the kitchen and stood, waiting for him acknowledge I was there.

His eyes flicked up and then went back down to his microscope: normal. The fact that he looked back up and stared: not normal. This made me self-conscious. Was it my hair? No, it was probably my shirt. It wasn’t a jumper for this one, just a dark blue button down. Did he think it looked silly? Of course he thought I looked silly. He always thought that. Such things didn’t matter anyway, it wasn’t like I was going on a date with him! What mattered was what Anna thought. That was all that should matter.

“You’re going on a date,” He said blankly. He continued to stare at me, slowly dissecting me and everything I was. That gaze always made me shiver.

“Yes,” I answered with a confidence I really didn’t have.

“Why?”

Because I need to forget that I am in love with you. “Anna is nice, she asked me out, I said yes. So we’re going on a date.”

“Oh,” He replied, his eyes starting to glare a little bit. “But I need you here.”

“No you don’t, Sherlock. You’re a grown man and can stay at home by yourself for the night. I’ll bring home some take away afterwards if it helps.”

He walked around the table so he could loom over me. He always did this when he was trying to be intimidating and force his will on me or anybody else, “She is going to be dull, John, just like all the other girls you try to date. Your time would be better spent with me.”

He said something along those lines when I went to go out with Murray last week, even though it was for a case and was of national importance. He thinks he is the most important thing in my life. He is, but I won’t be the one to tell the bastard that. God knows that his ego won’t suffer without that piece of information.

“I’m allowed to have a life outside of you, Sherlock.”

“But you don’t need to, ergo you should just stay here with me.”

I was getting angry now, “You can’t just dictate my life.”

“If I don’t, then you’ll leave, and that is unacceptable.”

“I’m not required to stay here with you. I can go out and have fun and then come home and be with you. I can’t be trapped here all the time.”

“Is that what it is?” He growled, “You’re trapped here with me? If you’re so trapped why do you choose to stay? If being with me so unbearable for you, why don’t you just leave like everyone else does? You are more than financially stable to live on your own and I’m sure you won’t feel “trapped” once you leave me behind.”

“Where is this even coming from, Sherlock? Of course I’m not going to leave, you’re my best friend you fucking arse! I’m just going on a bloody date!”

“But you’re mine, John,” Sherlock stepped forward until he had me against the wall. My little traitor of a heart leaped at his words. But this was Sherlock. Surely he didn’t mean…

“I’m not,” It sounded like a lie even to my ears being the pathetic whimper it was.

“Yes you are. I have been trying to show you this for months now. However, you’re even more of an idiot than I thought you were. When animals choose a mate or they have something they claim as theirs, they lick it. I assumed that you would not appreciate such endearments. At least, not to begin our relationship. I have been using the next best option, yet you choose to ignore my claim. Usually a person in a committed relationship does not go on dates with dull girls. What you are about to do is adultery and I am simply preventing you from skewing your moral compass. You are mine and you do not need anything that I cannot provide you with. Honestly John, it’s silly that this needs to be explained to you.”

I was gaping at him, thrown completely for a loop. So all of his kisses were a way of… possession? Was Sherlock really so romantically constipated that he looked at the habits of animals for tips on how to court someone and then proceeded to be a possessive git without telling me that we were even in a relationship? All of the pain I went through was all for nothing?

“I hate you.”

“Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make you any less mine,” He went to walk away but I grabbed his wrist.

“That’s not how a relationship works, Sherlock. You can’t just decide that another person is yours. You have to tell them you would like to pursue a more romantic relationship, not spontaneously kiss them at random intervals that mess with their head and make it seem like-”

“Like what?”

I hardened my resolve and looked in his eyes, “Like you’re using them. Like you know that they love you, but you don’t feel the same, so you will play along because it’s enough to make them stay. God Sherlock, when I tried to return the affection, you left. Do you know how hard this has been for me?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, “John. You are being irrational. Everyone loves you. I am no different from the rest of the putrid population. Surely you must know this. That is why I must ensure that you are mine and everyone who comes into contact with you knows it.”

I know I shouldn’t expect more consideration from Sherlock. He was insecure, that much was obvious. While he was trying to seem cool and logical, he was really scared that I would actually leave. It’s been his fear for a long time and I wasn’t doing anything to reassure him that it was okay. I found myself forgiving him for my inner turmoil simply because this was exactly what I expected from my Sherlock.

Instead of talking about it because god knows that is not how we deal with our problems here at Baker Street, I gently tilted my head up and kissed his jaw. He would understand. He always does.

“No date?” He asked quietly.

“No date.”

 

~

 

The kisses became a two-way street. It was rare that either of us did anything without dropping a kiss on the other. Whether it was on the forehead, cheek, temple, there was always some exchange before we did anything. However, neither of us transferred the kisses to a lip-lock. I wanted to wait until Sherlock was ready to push forward, but he was showing no sign of wanting our relationship to progress.

I set up plenty of situations where he had the opportunity to kiss me and he didn’t. I have even leaned in close to his face and just stared at him, waiting for him to initiate the contact. He just told me to “back up” because I was being “distracting.” 

While this shouldn’t have been that concerning, I wanted nothing more than to just cuddle the stuffing out of him and kiss him breathless. However, I was also determined not to push my luck with this relationship. I wasn’t sure how much experience Sherlock had with the actual romantic part. He had to revealed to me his sexual history (Victor Trevor better hope I never got my hands on him) while he was really sick after a case. It didn’t appear he had actually been apart of a loving, healthy partnership. Hell, the way he “courted” me was proof enough that he was making it up as he went. This backed me into a corner: I could take the initiative and risk scaring him away, ruining absolutely everything, or I could wait and actually die from the temptation to kiss him.

Perhaps I could just ask him, as that seemed to be the best approach when dealing with Sherlock. I picked a rather uneventful day to voice my questions. 

“Sherlock?” I began, figuring an unassuming approach would keep him more relaxed.

He looked over from the sofa, his hands together as they always were when he was thinking, “Yes?”

“Why don’t we ever kiss?”

He scoffed dramatically, “John, we kiss everyday. I had no idea you paid so little attention.”

My sigh of frustration refused to be held back, “You know what I mean, Sherlock.”

“Does it bother you?”

“A bit, yes. I would like to.”

“Why?” He was suddenly up in a flurry of movement, “Because it is expected of us? I suppose you’ll be demanding sex next. Really John social convention is a waste of our time and it would be best if you ignore it. You aren’t gay, and I don’t expect you to act like you are in order to “fit in” with society’s wishes. I allow you to return my kisses, but I will not stand for you to act differently because you want appease me or others. “

What was he going on about now? For the love of christ for a genius this was by far the stupidest revelation I have ever heard. I stand up and stop him from pacing. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I kiss you because I want to. Me, John Watson, likes to kiss you, Sherlock Holmes. Next, I do not give a fuck about what is expected of us, We were expected to get together earlier yet we never did. I am not straight Sherlock, so the itself goes against what is expected.

“You said you weren’t gay!”

“I’m not!”

“Make up your mind John. You have to be-”

“No I don’t! All my life I have been told to make up my mind but I can not and will not. I like both, equally, and I say “I am not gay” or “I am not straight” to get out of situations that make me uncomfortable. Not my fault everyone comes to the wrong conclusion every time.” 

He was left speechless for once in his goddamn life, so I took the opportunity to make him really listen, “I love you Sherlock, and I thought you knew that. I want to be with you in every way, however you’ll have me. I’m sorry I made you believe otherwise.”

The hug was sudden, yet not entirely a surprise. He buried his face into my hair and released shaky breaths.

“I was so scared that you only stayed because I wanted you too. I was afraid you pitied me. I… didn’t want to do anything that would make you leave. I’m not good this John. You being able to actually want me… you must understand it is difficult for me to believe. I… apologize.”

This wasn’t the Sherlock I knew. This was something different, something raw and fragile. My heart ached from what I felt for this man. For as long as I lived, I would have to remind him that he was the most important and brilliant and wonderful person I have ever been blessed to know. Even when he was being an arse, especially when he was being an arse, I would tell him I loved him no matter what. “We are both idiots, aren’t me?”

Sherlock chuckled, “I’m never an idiot.”

“Yes you are,” I raised my head and met his lips that were already waiting in anticipation. 

The kiss was not shy, but it was gentle and possibly the sweetest thing I had ever experienced. I wanted to cry because of how much I loved Sherlock Holmes.

I pulled away first, “Good?”

He look speculative, “Another.”

I giggled and kissed him again, this one a little deeper. I considered opening my mouth, but I found that this was nice for now.

He pulled away this time, “More, John. For science.”

“Well, if it’s for science…” I wrapped my fingers in his curls and kissed him savagely. My tongue found his easily and the kiss defied anything we had experienced up to this point. It was biting and violent and exactly what I wanted. I could die happy in this moment as long as Sherlock followed me into the arms of death. Perhaps these thoughts were a bit not good, but really, neither was Sherlock. We would just be one big lump of not good together. 

I was pulled impossibly close, as if Sherlock was trying to merge us into one body. I couldn’t mind too much, especially when the mouth I had fantasized about was kissing me just so. His little moans were swallowed by my own mouth greedily. My grip on his hair tightened further and his moan was anything but little that time, yet I wasn’t going to discriminate because nothing this sensual had ever happened to me in my life. 

He pulled away to litter little kisses all over my face, “John…. My John… only my John?”

I nod the reassurance he was pleading for, “Yes, and you are my Sherlock. Okay?”

“More than okay. I’m glad to be yours, always.” He spun and flopped back down on the sofa, his arousal obvious even to me. “I must now go interpret this new data. I expect more kisses like that in the future and quite often because I need my records to be as up to date as possible. This is non-negotiable.’

I laughed and kissed his forehead, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I made some tea, knowing he would want a fresh cup. When I set it down, I felt a brush of lips on my temple. Lovely.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry that their relationship may seem a bit not healthy/good, but when have they ever done anything that was either of those things properly? For those of you waiting on the sequel to Five Fingers, don't fret. You will have it soon.
> 
> ~Remix~


End file.
